Burn It All to Ashes
by DaggerPen
Summary: AU after Under the Hood. Nearly a year after the standoff with the Joker, the Red Hood is back. Rated M for language in future chapters, but it's otherwise T for violence and possible references to various illegal activities.
1. Phantasm

A/N: Yeah, I'm going to be seriously screwing with the post-UTH timeline in this. And the mid-UTH. And the pre-UTH- _especially_ DITF. Long story short, if the characters start going on about events that never happened and/or directly contradict canon, I'm probably retconning to suit my personal fanon. Also, I may play it a little fast and loose with the timeline, pushing events and storylines off until later, since I'm seriously considering bringing Black Mask in. You have been warned.

*******

Like a knife, the footsteps cut through the still air, echoing hollowly against the concrete structure.

The figure staggered slowly, painfully across the expanse, one hand clutching his stomach, the other the wall. His shirt was torn, his jacket and customary helmet both missing, and blood trickled between his fingers, oozing down from the ragged wound in his stomach. Heavily, he leaned against the concrete, his breathing shallow and irregular, both from the shock of his injury and the all-too-familiar scene currently playing out behind his eyes.

_It flashes through the air, crimson and silver._

He didn't even notice as his knees gave out under him, his body collapsing against the wall with a dull thud. He shook, muscles quivering as he clutched his knees to his chest, trying feebly to push away the phantasms.

_Back, down. Back, down. Again and again and again and again._

The concrete was cold through the remnants of his body armor, the wall rough against the side of his face. Jason barely noticed.

_Weakly, he raises his arm, trying desperately to block the blow._

But no, it's not real, not real-

_Like glass, it shatters, exploding with pain._

Not real.

_His skull is next. Fireworks burst behind his eyes as the crowbar smashes into his forehead, snapping his nose and splintering the bone. The noise is distorted as it echoes through his head, seeming almost to come from a distance. He can hardly hear it over the agony._

Not real!

_He can't think. He can't move. He just lies there, no longer trying to hold back the tears as he breaks, the warehouse echoing with the _crack_ of his bones and laughter._

Footsteps- someone else's. Briefly, he surfaced from the hallucination, fighting to throw off the cobwebs of delusions, but to little avail- he was weak now, enervated by pain, confusion and the shock steadily seizing his body, and the flashback tore through his mind with ease, violently ripped him from reality. His head fell against the concrete as he at last succumbed completely and the world slipped from his grasp, fading to a dull haze.

_Pain._

He didn't notice as the arrival knelt by him, didn't feel it as the man shook him, oblivious to the hands pulling him upright, taking his pulse, turning his head.

"Jason." The voice was faint, echoed through his head from far away, barely brushing his consciousness, hardly distracting him from the delusions playing through his mind.

_He can't move; he can barely breathe. His whole body is on fire with pain. Dimly, he realizes that the blows have stopped, and for a moment, he's thinks it's over._

"Jason, can you hear me?" The voice was even fainter now.

_For a moment._

"_Now, Birdboy, you should know- this is nothing _personal._" Jason shudders and squeezes his eyes shut as he hears the voice by his ear, turning away as best he can. "But you see, that Daddy of yours- nothing would cheese him off quite like bashing your brains in here."_

"Damn it!" he didn't hear. "Jason, you need to stay with me."

_He can't even scream as the clown straightens, bringing the crowbar back for another swing. "No hard feelings?" Shuddering, Jason closes his eyes, tears trickling down his face behind the mask, and braces for the inevitable._

"Jason!"

"_Bruce..."_

*******

A/N: Bear with me; I'm going somewhere with this. Next chapter should take us back about 2 months.


	2. Return

_~two months earlier~_

"He's back."

The voice was deliberately dispassionate, cold as the air of the cavern around them. In front of the large set of monitors sat the source of the voice, a middle-aged man clad in pitch-black body armor, the stylized silhouette of a bat stretching across his chest and a dark cowl hanging behind his shoulders, pulled back from a slightly disheveled head of black hair and a set of dark blue eyes.

Fingers steepled, Batman stared neutrally at the display as the recording flashed across the screen, the red-helmeted form still clearly visible in the grainy footage.

Alfred walked over to stand behind the man, looking over his shoulder. "Oh dear," he spoke quietly as he saw the video and the bittersweetly familiar figure it revealed- there was little else to say.

Eyes still fixed on the screen, Batman continued, "The surveillance footage is from last night. It was supposed to be an arms deal- the Great White Shark's been redoubling his efforts. He showed up partway through. Three of the dealers and nine of Shark's men are dead."

"And Master Jason?"

"The Red Hood walked away clean," he responded, "No known activity since, but an isolated hit on a small-time deal isn't his M.O.- reports of other attacks should surface soon."

"At least we know he's alive," the butler offered.

"Hmm," Batman replied, saying nothing as he closed the video.

"If I may ask, Sir, what do you plan to do about it?"

"Nothing, for now," Batman said, "The gang war between the Shark and Black Mask is still my highest priority. His presence doesn't change anything."

"Are you certain of that?" Alfred asked.

Bruce pressed his lips together, but said nothing.

After a moment-

"Sir-" the butler began hesitantly.

"Drop it, Alfred," Batman growled.

"Your last encounter with him-"

"Was almost a year ago," Batman dismissed icily.

"Hardly long enough for the feelings to fade," Alfred said, "On either side."

For the first time, Batman turned to look at him, his expression sharp. Alfred met his gaze evenly, and after a moment, Bruce scowled slightly, turning back to the monitor.

"It's over," he said shortly.

"I'm sure," the butler replied.

"Hmm," Batman dismissed again, and Alfred sighed.

"I shall leave you to it, then," he said. Batman made no response, and Alfred sighed again, turning to leave, then paused.

"Master Bruce," he said gently, stepping back over to him. Batman turned slightly to face him, and Alfred laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You did what you had to," he assured.

His lips tightened, and Batman swung his head back towards the screen.

"I'll be at least another hour," he said as neutrally as he could.

Alfred nodded, withdrawing the hand, then exiting the cave.

Batman just sat there as the footsteps faded, again pulling up the video and pausing it on an image of the Red Hood. Expression inscrutable, Bruce reached a gloved hand up to the display, tapping a finger against the glass.

"What are you doing, Jason?"

*******

A/N: Oh, fuck it. I've pretty much given up on really trying to make this chapter good- it's an introduction/transition chapter, really; annoying but necessary, with little room for any real literary fun. Plus, I'm horrible at writing Bruce's whole "emotional constipation thing," so that might be why it seems kind of "off" to me.

Also, I'd apologize for leaving you all hanging with the whole "shot and bleeding Jason" thing here, except, really, that was the entire point of using this particular storytelling method, wasn't it? Sorry to say, it'll be quite a while before I resolve that little plot point. (Don't hurt me.)


	3. Thoughts Avoided

*******

Expression grim, Jason stared at the reflection. Dark circles smudged under blue eyes- he'd barely slept in two days, not that that was anything unusual. Faint sheen of quickly drying sweat, the product of a particularly fruitful night's patrol, the second in as many days. Shock of white that he'd long since given up dyeing set against a mess of sable locks and a neat white line marring pale skin in the side of his neck, both ever-present reminders of a past best left forgotten (and God, if he hadn't tried).

Nearly a year, now. Nearly a year since he'd last gone out as the Red Hood. Nearly a year since he'd almost managed to Black Mask down for good, only to have the whole thing fall apart the moment he was out of the picture. Nearly a year since he'd come so damn close to finally putting an end to that stupid fucking clown, only to have justice ripped from his grasp at the last moment. Nearly a year since Bruce had-

But no, he wasn't going to think about that. It was the past. Over. Done with. Ancient history.

Frowning, Jason turned his head slightly, eyes inescapably drawn to the blemish on the side of his neck.

The scar had barely faded.

Expression inscrutable, Jason turned away from the mirror, his gaze falling upon the clutter strewn haphazardly across the low table in the center of the room. Guns. Bullets. Knives. Wires. Circuits. Scavenged electronics and jury-rigged devices.

If only to distract himself, Jason sprawled out across the beaten couch, shoving aside the stripped carcass of a gutted cell phone as he groped for the pack of smokes he knew was in there somewhere. Finding them, he similarly rummaged for a lighter, then tugged a cigarette from the box and lit it. Jason closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply and held it in his lungs for a moment, then opened them again as he exhaled, watching the smoke curl in the dim light.

Bruce had to have seen the security feed by now.

Suddenly restless, Jason stood, then paced across the room to the dirt-streaked window and opened it. The air was cool, but not cold, and smelled vaguely of car exhaust and some unidentified, indescribable mix of scents that was just _Gotham_.

He sighed, blowing a stream of smoke into the night air as he leaned against the frame.

It wasn't that he _cared _if Bruce- no, Batman- had seen the feed, of course. Yeah, sure, he wanted the bastard to know damn well he was back- it was why he'd chosen that particular target in the first place-, but he didn't _need_ him to. It wasn't a big deal. Jason was done with all the stupid grandstanding for "Daddy's" attention. That son of a bitch had made his feelings pretty damn clear a year ago, and Jason had gotten the message loud and clear.

He needed a drink.

Pushing himself away from the window, Jason strode over to the mini-fridge in the corner, pulling a can of beer from the whatever-the-hell-that-little-plastic-ring-thingy was called with perhaps a bit more violence than was strictly necessary, given that the damn thing exploded everywhere the moment he ripped open the tab.

He swore, but drank it anyway. Like always, the cheap stuff he bought tasted horrible, but it did the trick.

Nerves slightly calmer, Jason went back over to the couch and sat down, alternately taking a drag off his cigarette and a swig of his beer.

After he'd finished most of his cigarette and all of his drink, Jason sighed, glancing over at the clock. 3:47 in the morning. He knew he should probably head off to bed soon- always a fun prospect.

He pulled his laptop over instead, stubbing his cigarette out in the tray to the side and lighting a new one as he flipped up the screen. Nothing new, it looked like. No alerts. No emails. Nothing interesting from any of his surveillance feeds.

He pulled up his files anyways- it was that or sleep, and he _really_ wasn't in the mood to put up with yet another fucking nightmare.

He had some pretty good information on the situation already, actually. Though he'd only returned as the Red Hood two nights ago, he'd been back in Gotham for several weeks now. It'd killed him to wait, but he'd had to be more careful this time around- it was harder to get info as the Red Hood now that Bruce- no, Batman knew just who he was. No more element of surprise.

So, yeah. File.

The Great White Shark was... interesting. Warren White. Jason had never even heard of him before a few weeks ago, but he had to hand it to him; the guy was good. Helluva lot smarter than Black Mask. Originally some big businessman who got his ass caught embezzling, then somehow managed to get off with an insanity plea, which backfired spectacularly when he got himself sent to Arkham and his face half broken off by frostbite. God only knew how he'd been able to go from that to a formidable figure in the Gotham underworld in the 10 or so months the Red Hood had been out of Gotham, but whatever he'd done, it was working- Black Mask was down and on the run, with the Shark now controlling more than half of the territory Black Mask had originally controlled and virtually all of what used to be the Red Hood's, a pretty damn sizable area.

One thing was certain: the Shark knew what he was doing. Jason may have had a score to settle with the Black Mask (he'd be damned if he'd let that bastard get away with killing a Robin), but for now, the Shark had to be his primary target. Best to stop him now, before his control of the Gotham underworld solidified and taking him down got a lot harder.

Running a hand through his hair, Jason exhaled deeply, again looking at the clock. 3:53. With a sigh Jason set the computer back on the table and stood, dropping the smoldering butt of his cigarette into the ashtray beside him. Another beer, and he'd finally bite the bullet and turn in for the night.

Fuck, he was tired. That was probably a good thing, though- he always slept better that way. Fewer nightmares.

Having retrieved his drink, he again sat down on the couch, taking a sip from the can.

God, he needed to put a bullet through that clown's head. Not yet, of course- he had a lot of shit to get done before allowing himself that. But soon.

Or maybe not, actually. This time around, he'd at least have the luxury of dragging it out. Just him, the Joker and a crowbar. No more deadlines, no more final confrontations, and no more ultimatums- Bruce had already given him his answer.

Unconsciously, he moved his hand to his neck, running a finger over the scar, where Bruce had-

_No!_ he thought jerking his hand away in disgust. He wasn't going to think about that. He was done thinking about that. He'd spent nearly a year trying to purge that goddamn thing from his head.

He was done with the whole fucking thing. He was just- done.

Jason took another drink, his gaze falling to the side.

It wasn't like he gave a damn about the bastard, anyway.

*******


	4. Discoveries

A/N: ... what _is_ an acceptable price for a load of black-market assault weapons, anyways? I mean, I went with about 2 million here being high, but I honestly don't even begin to have any idea- I mean, 2 million seems high, but drugs and guns are supposed to be pretty damn profitable, so it should be expensive... Oh well. I'll just BS it and hope no one'll call me on it.

... actually, that pretty much sums up anything organized-crime related that I'm writing. This should make for an interesting story.

*******

The crisp night air of the docks was cold and still, the harsh glare of floodlights somehow only amplifying the same heavy darkness it penetrated. Standing in the halogen pools were two groups of men, faces mostly obscured by shadow. Though muffled and distorted slightly by the slow lap of water on concrete, the voices still cut sharply through the salt-air.

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!" said Robert "Bobby" Mason, a large, burly blonde man in his 30's. Around him stood five more men, all scowling slightly in emulation of their boss.

"No joke. Two million for the load, or we walk away." With his fur coat, slicked-back dark hair and thick Russian accent, Lev Andreev was the very picture of a stereotypical Russian mobster, an effect that could only have been intentional for its blatancy. He, too, had a group of men surrounding him, all doing their best to seem stoic and intimidating in face of the other's irritation.

"The deal was 1.6."

"Yes, it _was. _And then the Black Mask and his animals started ripping apart anyone who crossed them. Or have you forgotten what happened to Dominic Moretti? There is much talk of simply leaving Gotham until gang war is over- there is being killed for dealing with wrong person, and there is being skinned alive. "

"What, Mask gets a little nasty and you lot run away pissin' your pants?"

Andreev bristled, scowling. "Dealing with Shark has become far too dangerous as of late. You will not find a better price even if you find someone who will take the risk."

"Eh, you're all a bunch of pussies," Mason said, waving a hand dismissively. "Mask's nothin' but some cornered dog that don't yet know it's dead. Dealin' with Shark ain't hardly nothin' ta worry a-," suddenly, he broke off as a loud 'crack' split the air. Without warning, his whole body jerked as his joints locked tight. Then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Robert Mason crumbled limply to the ground, crimson liquid trickling down from the hole between his wide, glazed eyes. He was dead.

"Oh shit," one of the men murmured, staggering away as he quickly pulled a gun from its place at his hip. A few others just stared or looked around in confusion, talking in low murmurs as they attempted to spot the source of the shot.

It didn't take them long. Nimbly, the shooter sprung down from the top of the large, nearby stack of crates, landing lightly on the hard ground. As he stood, the rest of the men swore and leapt into action, some advancing slightly, others darting backwards, and all quickly pulling weapons from various holsters about their bodies.

Leisurely, as though heedless of the men's reactions, the figure straightened and strode forward a few steps, the blank mask of his red helmet glinting as the light slowly illuminated his frame.

"I donno, the Russian has a point," the arrival said, voice slightly distorted by his helmet. He had been holding the handgun, still-smoking, by his side in a loose grip, and as they watched, he raised it, twirling it idly before bringing it to bear. "I mean, I don't know what the Mask can do, but either way, it seems to me that dealing with the Shark is getting to be downright... _suicidal_."

*******

"Shark!" Richard "Rich" Johnson's voice was loud and urgent as he burst through the door with a second man, Johnny Richardson, close at his heels.

Seemingly unconcerned with the two arrivals' alarm, the Great White Shark, real name Warren White, merely continued looking over his papers as he asked, "Doesn't anyone know how to knock anymore?" He paused, glancing up at the men, "And don't I have guards for this sort of thing?"

"We told them it was important," Johnny said, stepping forward. "And it is. The arms deal with Andreev went south."

The Shark put down his papers, asking "Andreev wasn't willing to deal?"

"We don't know," Rich responded. "Him and his men are dead. Same with Mason."

"What happened?"

"We're not sure," Johnny said. "We just know they got hit. And we think it was-"

"The Black Mask?" Shark said. "Of course. No survivors to confirm?"

"One- Nelson Manson- but he's not saying much of anything: poor sonofabitch is lying half-dead in the hospital right now. Doctors're saying his condition's critical."

"What is this, the fourth gun buy that's been hit so far, plus other assorted deals? The Black Mask's getting bolder," Shark said. "And more desperate. Good. It means we've him on the run."

"Yeah, except it wasn't Mask," Rich said, tossing a blood-caked knife in front of him. The twisted blade made a muffled clatter on the desk as it landed. "This was stuck in one of our guys' throats."

Shark picked up the weapon, studying it. "I'm betting this isn't Mask's?"

"That's the same type of knife that Red Hood psycho from a while ago used," Rich told him. "That was his fucking trademark, and we found it stuck in some poor bastard's throat. And it turns out this isn't the first one, just the first one we heard about- we think this guy's been hitting us for near a week now."

"'Red Hood psycho'- you mean the one that was supposed to have been blown into very tiny pieces last year?"

"Cops never found a body," Johnny said. "Guy like him, that's good as proof he's still breathin' somewhere. And if he is, we've got a problem. This is bad. Real bad."

Shark laughed, shaking his head. "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," he said, walking over towards the man and setting both hands on his shoulders. "Relax. Even if this 'Red Hood' guy is back, it's nothing. We'll track him down and either make a deal or kill him. And chances are, this is probably just Black Mask trying to play mind games, make it look too dangerous to risk dealing with us."

"That's easy for you to say," interjected Rich. "You were still hiding away in that loony bin, Arkham, when he was on the scene. I saw this guy in action once. Just him against 20 guys. Leader of the guys didn't take him serious and told him to give up 'cause it wasn't a fair fight. Red Hood said he was right, so he _tossed him his gun_, said that was a little more even, and then went and killed them all. Twenty guys, all armed to the teeth, against one kid with a knife, and they never stood a chance. I don't think the Hood even got a scratch on him. Guy's a fucking demon."

"Well then," Shark said. "It's a good thing that I have experience dealing with demons, isn't it?" He turned and waved his hand, dismissing them. "Tell me what what's-his-name says if he wakes up- I'm sure he'll be able to confirm it if it is the Red Hood, which it probably isn't: dollars to doughnuts it's just the Mask trying to scare us."

*******

A/N: For those of you who missed it, Shark's "experience dealing with demons" line is a reference to the rather... interesting end of "Arkham Asylum: Living Hell," the short series where he was first introduced.


	5. Battlefield

A/N: Hey, a brief feedback request- I have, like, absolutely no sense whatsoever of what constitutes descriptive violence. I get the feeling that my descriptions here are on the slightly less descriptive side, but like I said, I'm totally clueless about it, so if you guys could please tell me if you think this is enough, or I need to get more detailed? Thanks.

* * *

"Now that's just not human."

Just inside the door stood the uniformed men, observing the gruesome scene. One of them, the speaker, stared at the mangled corpses as he spoke, a look of disgust and nausea plain on his face. His comrades' reactions were similar, though to varying degrees: some grimaced or flinched visibly at the sight, while others simply made a face into their coffees, well-jaded from years of experience with the dark underbelly of the city, and outside, one green officer hunched against the side of the building, trying and failing to hold onto the previous day's meal.

Red. Everything in sight was a sickening, rusty red, none of it part of the decor. The concrete floor was smeared with caked, dried blood, and the walls and ceiling were splattered with the same. Even in the air it hung, the metallic tang of iron and the sickly-sweet odor of gore mixing with the heavy must of the room in a stomach-churning miasma of death.

In the center of the room, several bodies lay strewn across the floor, identifiable as human only by their vague resemblance to the beings they had once been. Their clothes were shredded, stained with gunpowder and blood and assorted other bodily substances. Their frames were mutilated almost beyond recognition, the flesh stripped nearly to the bone in several places. Their faces were destroyed such that they had lost all appearance of human features- hair, eyes, noses and mouths, all pulped into one bloody, shapeless mass of tissue. The ragged, stained twists of cord still binding fast the now-inert hands and feet of the victims gave the final detail of the horrifying story, telling the tale far better than anything else ever could.

It was revolting. It was nauseating. It was animal- no, beyond animal. It was an appalling example of the depths of depravity to which man could sink.

It was nearly the fourth month of similar sights in Gotham.

The door creaked as it swung open, and Commissioner James "Jim" Gordon strode into the room, followed by several more officers and a gaggle of various analysts and technicians, plus assorted equipment.

Seasoned cop though he was, Jim had to gag a bit as the scene overwhelmed him, the stench of gore snatching a reflexive retch from his stomach before he caught himself.

"Now there's a sight for three in the morning," Jim said as the initial nausea quickly faded, then turned to face the officers around him. "What've we got?"

"We got a call from the night watchmen at 2:40 or so," said one of the men, Jack Wilson- Jim recognized him from the old days at the homicide division. Good cop, if a bit too cynical, even for Jim- now there was a man who'd seen far too much of the city's darkest side. "Unit arrived about three minutes later and found _this_," he gestured to the corpses. "We haven't been able to pull any identifiers off the stiffs, but we're pretty sure that these guys are- were- a group of chop shoppers kicking its tributes to the Shark. It was pretty common knowledge that this was their turf, and since a bunch of guys just got carved up by the Mask..." he trailed off, and Jim nodded in understanding.

"Okay," he said turning back to the mess, "we'll go ahead and have forensics comb over this and-"

"Gordon." In spite of himself, Jim jumped a little as the voice interrupted him and spun around to face the arrival, a familiar figure dressed all in black.

God, he hated it when he did that.

Ignoring the startled gasps and mumbled swears of several of the officers around him, Batman stepped forward, his cape billowing behind him. "Black Mask again?" he asked.

"Yeah."

The man nodded sharply, continuing, "Eddie Jacobs' gang."

"You get that from the scene, or is that an educated guess?"

"Both. He and his men had been dismantling stolen cars here ever since they joined in with the Shark three months ago, but they were moving the operation to a garage on the edge of Mask's territory, at Shark's direction." He gestured at the nearest corpse, a man whose face had been entirely removed. "The dental records should confirm that that was Jacobs- the gold teeth are clear indicators."

Good _God_, Jim hated it when he did that.

Batman brushed past the forensics team without even a sideways glance, then knelt by the corpses. Either ignoring or not noticing the hastily-stifled protests of the techs, the man began to comb over it, systematically examining the nauseating scene without even a shadow of a grimace to show that it affected him.

Jim bit back a comment of his own at the man's interference- his cops were good, and he was proud as hell of them, but he knew full well that, with a gang war like this, the GCPD needed all the help it could get if they wanted to stop this for good.

As if on cue, Batman stopped as he found something that Jim resolutely told himself his team would have easily caught had the masked man not interrupted, and the black figure stood, bagging the item.

"Looks like a piece of a glove," he explained curtly as he tucked it away in his belt- oh, God, he was taking the evidence. Jim _really _hated it when he did that. "I might be able to pull prints."

"Right," Jim responded, rubbing his temples. "Just- you send us the results, okay?"

Mentally, he reminded himself of everything the man had done for his city, of resources the man possessed that were obviously far better funded and maintained than the budget-slashed, overburdened equipment of the GCPD, of the man's invaluable assistance in so many similar cases in the past.

"That it?" Jim asked.

He glanced briefly over the scene again, then nodded. "I'm done," the man said curtly, then started towards the exit. He disappeared the moment Jim blinked.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jim turned away from the now-empty-of-masked-vigilantes corner, taking a deep gulp of his coffee.

He was getting too old for this.

* * *

A/N: "Just a little background on the gang war," I thought. "Just a nice little clarification of what's going on with the Mask and where things stand." Somewhere in the back of my head, my muse is laughing at me.

Not entirely sure I'm happy with Jim's character here, but I guess it always takes a few tries to really get into a character's head.

Also: sorry that it's late. As I said, I was having some... creative disagreements with my muse.

*muffled cries for help are heard from somewhere in the author's subconscious*

Ignore that.


	6. An Interlude

A/N: Originally, this was supposed to be a chapter set in the current story timeline, the general plot of which was supposed to be something involving Jason having a nightmare/flashback (I hadn't really decided at the time) about his death, but everything kind of... spiraled from there. I couldn't find a way to make something this long and detailed fit within the context I wanted, but I really couldn't bring myself to delete any of this, and since the whole "nightmare/flashback" thing wasn't really working the way I wanted it to at this particular point in the story, I decided to go ahead and scrap it. What I didn't want to do, however, was just throw away this whole wonderful (well- that may not be the best choice of words for this particular scene, but I'm still very proud of the writing) little thing, so... yeah. Consider this an interlude. An interlude that's come down with a bad case of "Death in the Family was a pile of shit, so I'm rewriting it somewhat to suit my needs."

Oh, and: yes, this Joker is influenced by the Dark Knight, why do you ask?

* * *

_He wakes up in the dark, cuffed to the pipes on the wall of a barely-lit room. He doesn't know how he got there- the last thing he remembers is talking with his mother, offering her his help. He remembers a needle and a sharp sting in his arm. He remembers the look on Sheila's face as the world slowly faded, emotionless and uncaring. And he's pretty sure he's been drugged._

_The door swings open with a "bang," and a man in a clown mask enters. Jason's head is still swimming as the handcuffs come off. The thug doesn't say a word as he grabs the confused boy. He's already being hauled along before he realizes that he should probably fight back._

_A voice in the back of his mind tells him that the guy's got to be in with the Joker. Dazed as he is, the ramifications escape him._

_The world is spinning, and so is his head. Weakly, disorientatedly, he twists in the thug's grip, only to receive a hand across the face for his efforts. Jason keeps tripping over his own heavy feet as the man drags him along. It probably does more to loosen the thug's grasp than any escape attempt he makes._

/What's going on_?/_

_The man shoves him towards the center of the room, and he pitches forward, stumbles, falls. Hard, cold concrete rushes up to meet him. The impact jars every bone in his body._

_Bright. Everything's so bright. Jason staggers to his feet, shielding his eyes with a wobbly hand._

_Green gloves. He's still in costume, he realizes. Frantically, he gropes for the belt at his waist, but it's gone._

_Voices. Jason looks around wildly, confusion overwhelming. _

/Where am I? What the hell is this?/

_The goon has backed off to the entrance, but no one else seems to notice he's here. It gives him a moment to try to figure it out._

_He's in a- he thinks it's a warehouse. At the exits stand more of the masked thugs. Bright lights shine from all direction into the center of the room, where a man in purple stands._

_The Joker. He'd known on some level, but the sight still jars him. The adrenaline rush does a little to clear his head. _

_The psychopath stands in front of a few more clown-masked goons, one holding a camcorder, and he's saying something into the camera, but Jason can't quite make it out. As Jason stands there, the clown turns towards him, that gruesome carved smile spread across his face._

"_Oh!" The maniac's voice is shrill. "And here comes the star of the show." The madman advances, and Jason staggers backwards, stumbling over his own leaden feet. It's pathetically useless- the Joker grabs him with ease, twisting a gloved hand in his hair. Jason hisses, his knees buckling slightly as the clown wrenches his head backwards, then pulls him towards the center of the room. Jason struggles, grabbing at the man as he's pulled, reeling, along._

_They stop in the middle of the room, the hand in his hair still gripping like a vice. The lights are even brighter now, and Jason has to squint to see. As the boy struggles weakly, the clown yanks him close, wrapping the other arm over his chest in some sick parody of an embrace._

"_Smile for the camera, Birdboy," the man instructs, twisting his head farther back. Jason lets out a gasp of pain as a few strands of hair are ripped from his scalp, the rest pulled tight._

_He knows how to get out of this. He knows he does. So why can't he _do_ anything?_

"_Let go of me, you sick bastard," he spits, his tongue heavy with the sedative. Desperately, Jason pulls at the arm barring his way, twisting fruitlessly against the hold._

_The clown ignores him, pulling Jason closer as he gropes in the purple suit with a gloved hand, withdrawing a piece of paper and shoving it in front of Jason's face._

_Jason blinks, staring at the writing scrawled across the sheet. It's barely legible; it looks like something some kid wrote, crayon and all._

_For a moment, he just stares at the paper, dread rising in his stomach as he finally realized fully what this was. Then his head is jerked back until he's staring at the ceiling, and the clown's mouth is right against his ear. He can feel the hot, putrid breath against the side of his face as the monster says in a mock-whisper, "It's your line, Boy Blunder."_

"_Fuck you," Jason snarls in response, bravado he doesn't feel._

_The man throws back his head and laughs, loud and shrill. Mocking, insane whoops echo through the room._

_Then there's a shove at his back, and Jason pitches forward, hitting the concrete hard. For a moment, he just lies there, then his instincts return and he lurches, stumbling to his feet._

_The world is spinning even more now, but he ignores it as best he can, dashing madly for the nearest exit._

_He doesn't even make it 10 feet before one of the thugs is on him, tossing him back into the center of the "stage" like a ragdoll. Again, he hits the ground._

_He's just starting to stand again when he feels the tug on his cape. Staggering, Jason throws up his arms and spins to face his attacker. Like a net, it's brought over his head, tangling him up._

_He lets out a muffled scream of protest and panic as the cloth wraps over him, pressing his arms against his chest, pulling his head back, smothering him. The cape is ripped backwards, yanking him with it. He lands hard on the floor, fighting with sluggish limbs against the fabric prison._

_He can't even break free before the blow comes, the boot crashing into his stomach. The body armor absorbs most of it, but it still knocks away his breath. Still laughing, the clown hits him again, then again and again._

_He manages to brace himself for it after the third blow, and when the madman brings his foot back for another kick, Jason seizes the opportunity to disentangle himself completely. He throws himself to the side to avoid the next blow, managing to pull himself up into a crouch._

_He can't move fast enough to dodge the next one. The boot meets his throat with agonizing force. Jason doubles over, gasping and coughing._

_He's barely aware of it as the Joker walks away. He's just glad for the opportunity to at least recover a little. His windpipe hurts like hell, but it was mostly a glancing blow._

_The next one isn't._

_He doesn't even stand a chance of fighting back as the clown kicks him square in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards._

_Dazed, he just lies there, stares at the ceiling._

_It makes it easy to see it coming._

_He doesn't realize what it is yet. All he can see is a flash of silver, streaking down towards him. Its movement is painfully slow, but he's slower still._

_He barely even lifts his arms off the ground before it crashes down on his ribs, and suddenly, time's right back to its normal speed._

/Ah! Oh God!/_ Mouth opening in a soundless cry, Jason curls in on himself, shuddering. It hurts. It _hurts_. All the breath's gone from him, and his lungs won't work, won't do anything to get rid of the horrible, _empty_ feeling in his chest. _

_And then another one comes, and then more after that, until the world is going black around the edges from pain and lack of oxygen._

"_Actors," comes the voice again, and then he's being dragged to his feet, kept upright only by the fist in his hair. Again, the paper is held in front of him, the words blurred by the pained tears brimming behind his mask. "Really, to be a director these days." The clown shakes the paper under Jason's nose. " I mean, you should be _proud _to be performing in this little educational film."_

"_G-" it hurts to breathe. He knows that at least 2 of his ribs are broken, and more probably cracked._

/Can't let him have what he wants.../

"_Go to hell," he spits in a weak, hoarse voice._

_Again, the clown throws him to the ground. Jason knows what's coming even before he hits the floor, and he rolls onto his side, curling up and shielding his head with his arms in a frantic attempt to protect himself._

_He's lucky this time: his suit absorbs most of the blow. His right arm's only paralyzed by the hit to the shoulder, rather than shattered: all he ends up with is a shooting pain in his arm, followed by a burning, painful prickling as it begins to grow numb. The armor helps with the next one, too, allowing the blow to spread over both his head and the arm protecting it without actually breaking bone. No damage. Just agony. Lucky, lucky, lucky._

_Then the blows stop, and the madman's driving his foot into Jason's back instead, shoving him slightly across the floor with each kick. Jason rolls away as best he can, only to have the boot connect with his stomach. It hurts, but at least it doesn't hit his ribs. _

_Then the Joker is on him, gleefully swinging the crowbar in wild arcs. Back, down, back, down, again and again and again. The weapon splits his lip and probably knocks out a tooth as it connects with the side of his face. Blood fills his mouth, choking him on acrid copper. He gags, coughs as he gasps for breath. The blows give him no respite, no room to recover himself. Fear and panic overwhelm him as they just keep coming, _breaking _him._

_The clown's in close, and Jason grabs onto his wrists as the metal's pulled back for another swing. It's more instinct than anything else. And so he just hangs on the monster's arms, intent on nothing but just making it _stop_._

"_Little help here?" he hears the clown ask, and suddenly he's being seized by twin sets of hands. As he's dragged off, Jason thrashes wildly, kicking and flailing. He feels his foot connect with the madman's face, but it gains him only a fist to his. Soon, he's being held fast, his arms locked out by his side by the thugs._

_The Joker whistles tunelessly, actually _skipping _as he tosses the crowbar from hand to hand, moving leisurely towards the helpless boy._

_Again, a blow connects with his stomach, this time delivered by the metal bar. The next one takes his knee, making his leg buckle as it sends bolts of pain up through his body. He does his best to bite down the scream as the joint "pops" loudly._

_The Joker pauses and steps back, putting a gloved, bloodied hand under his chin in an exaggeration of a thoughtful pose as he looked over the captive victim. After a moment, his face twists, a look of inspiration playing across the features. He turns the red-streaked crowbar over in his hands so that the clawed end now faces Jason, then grins wider, bringing the weapon to bear._

_It rips both skin and suit as it's brought down across his shoulder, leaving a short, irregular tear through the "R" insignia. It leaves similar marks with the following blows._

_Jason arches his head back, every muscle in his body tensing as he feels it split his flesh. The crowbar leaves shallow gashes, bruising more than it tears. It stings._

_It doesn't last for long, though, and soon the steel bar is again hitting rather than ripping. Fireworks of pain explode behind his eyes as it breaks his collarbone, a loud snapping noise filling the air._

_After an eon, the blows finally stop, and the Joker sighs melodramatically, resting the metal against his shoulder. He surveys the broken, bleeding boy with the air of an artist surveying his latest masterpiece. A moment later, he nods, gesturing to the men. The hands holding him drop him abruptly, and Jason crumples to the ground, doubling over and retching._

/Bruce.../

_Bright lights are still dancing in front of his eyes when the clown drags him back up in front of the camera. Again, the paper's shoved in front of him._

_Jason just stares at it, shuddering, as his vision clears. He's shaking now, every muscle in his body quivering with fear and pain. Jason opens his mouth, his breathing shallow and erratic, then closes it again, unable to force himself to either bring more pain or finally give in._

/I can't let him win. I can't./

_The paper makes a crinkling noise as the Joker balls his hand into a fist. Jason's not really sure what noise he makes when the fist smashes into his broken ribs, once, twice, three times._

_Everything goes black, and he goes limp in the madman's grasp._

_When his vision returns, he's being propped up again, the paper still held under his nose. Even when his eyes focus again, he can still barely read it through the tears._

/I can't- can't.../

"_Batman-" he begins, his voice choked with agony both mental and physical. _

/Bruce.../

"_This- this is what happens when you try to control everything, when you- you try to take everything in the world and make it the way you want- want it. You expect everyone to play by your rules, and you th-think that it somehow makes the world better, protects- protects you and your loved ones, but you can't expect it to- to work." His voice breaks, and he closes his eyes, tears soaking into the fabric of the mask as he shudders. An insistent prod forces him to open them, and he swallows hard. "This is what happens when you stick to your 'code' and think that- that will stop men like the Joker. You thought it would protect me and now- now look at what ha-happens," he finishes in a whisper, the last word little more than a sob._

/I'm sorry. I'm so sorry./

_The clown drops him, and Jason falls limply to the floor, cradling his broken ribs as he cries and shakes._

_He can _see_ the pain as the kick forces him back._

/Oh God, please, no!/

_The clown bends over and picks up the crowbar, tossing it between his hands and humming to himself as he approaches the helpless boy._

/No, please, not again!/

_He can see the crowbar coming, and, sluggishly, desperately, he raises his arm to block it._

_With a sharp _crack, _the bone _shatters. _He hears a vague, muffled cry of pain, muted by the breaking bone._

_The next blow is already on its way by the time he realizes it was his._

_Like dead wood, his skull splinters, his nose snapping with a loud, sharp noise. For a moment, it's the worst pain he's ever felt. He hardly even realizes as his mouth opens, his body jerking with the shuddering, soundless cry. Then everything goes black._

_He comes to to the sharp yet deadened of sting of a hand against his face. _

"_Not going to sleep on us already, are you, Birdboy?"_

_Weakly, he opens his eyes, then closes them again with a shudder as the pale, grinning face fills his vision. _

_He feels an explosion of pain in his stomach as the boot connects with his ribs, hard, and he can't choke down a sudden, reflexive gasp of pain, his body jerking to curl around the site of the blow._

_He doesn't even begin to have the time to orient himself before the crowbar hits him again, slamming down on his back. Another rib. Another choked-off _sob _of agony. _

/Oh, God/_, he thinks. /_He's killing me./

_Another blow._

/Bruce?/

_And another._

/Bruce, help me./

_And another and another and another._

/He's going to kill me./

_He can't even tell if he's screaming now._

/I'm sorry! I should have listened to you and stayed back and I'm so sorry!/

_It takes him almost a full minute to realize that the blows have stopped. _

/Is it over?/

_It hurts everywhere. Every bone in his body must be broken. He opens his eyes, and all he can see is red. _

/It's- it's over. It has to be./

"_Now, Birdboy, you should know- this is nothing _personal._" The whisper is harsh against his ear, the words piercing his splintered skull like a nail._

/Oh God. No. Nononono please God no!/_ He almost sobs, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face against the floor, shudders wracking his broken body._

"_But you see, that Daddy of yours- nothing would cheese him off quite like bashing your brains in here."_

_He wants to scream as he hears the faint rustle of cloth, knowing what's coming next, but he can't, can't even breathe._

"_No hard feelings?"_

/Bruce... I'm sorry./

* * *


	7. Bad Night

A/N: I'm experimenting a bit with the narrative here- feedback is appreciated.

Also: yada yada yada yada, "chapter is obscenely late," blah blah blah, "completely and utterly unable to manage her time," yada yada "pile of crap is barely even a filler chapter." What else is new?

* * *

The wind blew smoothly between the tall buildings, occasionally rustling the jacket of the crouching figure. He could feel traces of it through his outfit, slipping in through the gaps, but he couldn't feel it on his face. Couldn't taste the cool night air through the helmet, just stale breaths that filtered in.

It was like he was suffocating.

(Taste of a memory, barely a ripple in his thoughts. Cold. Alone. _Trapped_.)

Bad night tonight. Another night when his thoughts seemed to fight him. When his head seemed to spin, just a little. It happened sometimes- more and more, now. He'd long since learned to ignore it.

(Not going to dwell on it.)

The helmet was just- _wrong_ where it touched his skin. Made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Pressed in on him, felt but not seen.

Practically invisible on the inside. He'd worked and reworked the eye slots, made sure that he couldn't even _see _edges of the hood when he was wearing it. The damn thing had a dozen or so different failsafes, too, all checked and double-checked. It couldn't trap him. _Couldn't._

He _felt _it closing him in.

But damn if he was going to give into that.

/_It was a long time ago_/, he told himself. /_You're stronger than that now./ _

(Buried in the dark, can't get out.)

He hated staking places out like this. Nothing to do but sit and try to ignore his thoughts. It was so much better when he was doing something, when he could forget about the world and the past and his fucked-up head and finally have everything just shut up and make sense, if only for a moment.

(So much better then. Empty euphoria, blood pounding in his ears and fists thudding against flesh. Numb, but alive.)

But he was stuck here. Important stakeout and all that.

Andrew Albom. Originally, a small-time drug-runner in Mask's org. Then the Red Hood had started wiping out Mask's guys, and he'd gotten a bit of a promotion. Now, he was a mid-level dealer under Shark- he'd defected pretty early on with a few others when Shark'd started really taking over. Hardly a major player, but he'd know enough about both gangs to be useful. Good jumping point, at least- better than playing whack-a-mole with whatever street-level shit he could dig up in a night.

Tiny little snag in the plan, though- Albom wasn't there. No real sign of where he'd gone, and nothing to suggest that it'd be worth the Red Hood's time to try to figure out where he was, instead of waiting for him to show up here, where he knew he'd be.

Fucking stakeouts. Bastard comes in at midnight every night for a week straight, and the very night the Red Hood decides it's time for a little heart-to-heart, he doesn't show?

It was almost funny, except it was tonight, when his thoughts wouldn't shut up and he had nothing to drown them out. Which meant that, yeah, the hood was starting to wear on his nerves, just a little. It didn't mean anything more than that.

Another bad night. Just another bad fucking night.

(Flashes behind his eyes for a second, gone before he realizes it. More felt than seen. Suffocating.)

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back a bit.

_/Not. Taking. It. Off./_

Fucking coffin. Fucking stakeouts. Fucking memories that just wouldn't go away. Fucking helmet that never _used _to bother him, not this bad.

(Walls of cloth. Not an episode. Barely a memory. Just an image. A brief crackle of a synapse.)

_/Breathe./ _(Try to calm himself down.)_ /Taste that air? It's not going to run out. You know that. So get over it./_

Get over it...

It was stupid, of course. Ridiculous. The big, bad Red Hood, getting all worked up over a fucking helmet. And he knew that. Hated himself for it. Felt like an idiot.

He sighed, returning to his crouching position and glancing down at his target.

Oh, look, a distraction.

Kind of.

No one. Still.

_/Great. Maybe I should just-/_

It came like they always did, suddenly and without warning. Searing across his mind with force enough to double him over. Just a barrage of sensations. No timeline or plotline or anything to tie them together. Just flashes.

_Pain. Claws at the walls, shredding his hands. Trapped. Alone. Can't breathe, can't breathe!_

Going on and on and on and _on_. He clutched at his head. Felt hard plastic through the leather.

_/**Stop!**/_

And then it was gone. Quick as it had come, barely a second passed. He blinked, momentarily caught between memory and reality.

Oh God, he was-

No. He wasn't.

No coffin. Rooftop. Sky.

Just a helmet.

The world had barely returned before another one hit him, hard.

_Screaming. Begging. Bruce, where are you?_

Again. Worse than the first. Like a punch to the stomach, buckling him out of his crouch, jerking his head towards his knees. Fingers scraping against the hood, accomplishing nothing.

Longer? Shorter? Hell if he knew.

He was lying on the roof when it ended. Didn't know where he was, for a second.

His heart stopped as he felt his fingers fumble over the latch, useless adrenaline surging through his veins and panic rising in his throat, meaningless remnant of a nightmare lived. The ghosts of the images still passed behind his eyes as he struggled with the hood.

It was forever before the latch caught, the helmet hissing open. Slowly. So damn slowly. He ripped it off before it was even fully released, gasping as the breeze hit his face.

Ah! Ah. Oh God.

God-

He let himself collapse completely to the hard roof, curling up as he rested on his side and just- breathed.

It felt _so _good to breathe.

It took a few moments for the episode to fade completely. It took an eternity. The whole time, he just lay there, shivering slightly as fear slowly gave way to shame.

/_Pathetic,_/ chided a voice at the back of his mind.

/S_hut up,_/ he told it, hating himself. He pushed himself up, then fell back to sit, his head in his hands. His breath was even now, but he still took deep gulps of the cool, sweet air. Still shuddered, just a little.

He let out a deep, shaky sigh.

Shit. Just- shit.

That... was not good. Not at all. At least before, the episodes had stayed confined mostly to his dreams, or at least to the privacy of his apartment, when things got really bad, but on a rooftop during a stakeout? No. Never. He'd at least managed to keep his patrols pretty well separate from the mess that was his head. Sure, the helmet had always bothered him a little, from the very moment he first put it on, but not like this. Not like now. Because now? Now, it seemed like it just kept getting worse.

Like _he _kept getting worse.

He tilted his head back and ran his hands down his face, laughing without humor.

Flashbacks. Happening more and more now. Getting worse and worse.

Just another bad fucking night.

* * *

A/N: This should actually have gone up last night, but the login area was being weird- anyone else have that problem?


	8. Names

A/N: You know, maybe I should stop bitching about Battle for the Cowl and look on it as a blessing in disguise. I mean, half the reason I even started this thing was frustration with canon- who knows what new heights I'll be spurred to while trying to wash the taste of that pile of crap of a title from my mouth? Perhaps I'll even be inspired to do timely updates!

... naaah.

Also: okay, I know I say this with every chapter, but something about this one does seem somewhat... "off" to me. Is that just Bruce being Bruce, or do you guys notice anything? (You know- because people review this all the time, so I have every reason to expect a response here.)

Finally: does not seem to support strike-through, so for this fic, the role of the strikethrough will be played by these handy little signs: |. Enjoy!

*******

Possible Match: Marcus Jasper Adler

Known associates: Baltazar, Bessie S. (spouse: deceased); Adler, Jacob J. (father: deceased); Adler, Marian N. (mother: deceased); Ortiz, Michael J.; Sionis, Roman I. (via False Face Society); Battle, Chris J. (via False Face Society); Davies, Salvatore E. (via False Face Society)

[expand information]

Lost in though, he frowned slightly behind steepled fingers, rereading the file. It had been difficult, but he had managed to pull prints off the glove fragment from the Jacob murder. The results were hardly surprising- Batman had been fairly certain that at least part, if not all, of Mask's main hit squad was made up of one-time False Facers. It made sense, certainly.

Marcus Adler. A name, one that could well lead to more.

It was a start. But it wasn't enough. The violence was getting worse with each day the war continued, and he was hardly closer to stopping it.

Monday, Sionis's hit squad had attacked another target, wiping out Eddie Jacob's gang of chop-shoppers, at least the tenth of such attacks in the past 4 months. Yesterday, White had retaliated. Another drive-by shooting. Bank Street, outside a diner. Target had been Michael "Mad Dog" Warren, a mid-level . Currently, he was in critical condition at Gotham General. So were 3 others, all civilians. A fourth, 7-year-old Jennifer Blyton, was dead.

Now, so were five others. Each White's man. Each almost certainly involved in the shooting.

Each murdered by Red Hood.

The violence had been escalating for some time now. It had begun when White first began his attempts to take over Gotham's underground. It had spiraled out of control when Mask's hit squad had made its first strike, attempting to terrify the rest of the criminal underworld away from working with Shark, but succeeding only in bringing about more and more blood as each sought retribution and more for the other's attacks.

And now, the Red Hood had involved himself.

That... would complicate things, in the future. Soon, most likely. But at the moment, it changed nothing. Whatever problems Red Hood would bring, they were no worse than what was already happening. As long as White and Sionis continued to bring their fight into the streets, they were his top priority.

And after that... he would deal with it when he had to. Until then, there was no sense dwelling on it.

|He couldn't stand to.|

He needed to strike at their networks. Finding the gang leaders themselves was, of course, essential, but both men were more than capable of continuing operations even in police custody. He'd have to dismantle their organizations, piece by piece, in order to ensure that they were stopped.

But first, he needed to bring the violence to a manageable level, and his best shot at that was to cut Mask's attacks off at the source. Hopefully, when the hits ceased, so would Shark's violent retaliations.

Oh, he had no delusions that the fighting would end there. Certainly not. But it could well buy him the time he needed to focus on a more permanent solution.

Marcus Adler. The name was not as helpful as it could have been. The man was already in hiding, likely with help from Sionis. Ferreting him out would prove... challenging.

It was a start. But not nearly enough.

He sighed, turning away from the display and rubbing his temples.

He couldn't help it. Automatically, he glanced at it. The Case.

_/Jason.../_

|Could he have stopped it?|

Briefly, his lips tightened, his hand clenching in a reflective twitch. He let his gaze fall to the side, unable to look at it longer.

|He'd had to do it. There was no other choice.|

Deliberately, he turned away from the memorial, pushing away the memories.

It meant nothing.

The violence was still escalating, and Gotham was being torn apart. Every moment, things were getting worse. He had to stop it. Before even one more innocent life was lost, he had to stop it.

He had no time to waste on murdering trash.

*******

A/N: Blatant exposition... reads a lot better than I thought it would, actually. We've been missing Bruce lately, anyways.

On a completely unrelated note: fuck, do I hate trying to come up with names for OC's. Especially since I don't like to use names that are actual names, but with the advent of FaceBook and the like, I've come to the conclusion that it's just fucking impossible to come up with a name no one else has. Apologies to the many, many Michael Warrens out there.


	9. Prevenience

A/N: Umm... heh. *rubs the back of her neck nervously* So, this is kind of late, isn't it? Yeah... sorry about that.

On the plus side, this should be the last exposition chapter for a while. Actual plot and character development is next, I promise!

*******

Nestled unobtrusively between the dilapidated structures and time-worn architecture sat the low building, scattered lights in cracked, dingy windows the only outward sign of life. Though both intact and relatively sturdy, there was still something warped about the structure, the remnant of the cataclysm only a few years past. Like its neighbors, the once-fine paint was chipped and cracked, the pipes rusted and the roof partially stripped of its shingles. High up on the front of the building remained the faint shadow of a sign now long gone, and far below it, a new one hung on the door. "Warning," it read, "Private property. Keep out. Violators will be prosecuted," and another underneath, "Protected by an ACME security system."

All in all, it was a remarkably unremarkable building, just like all the others in the run-down, forsaken slum. Deliciously inconspicuous, and perfect for his purposes.

He sat behind a paper-strewn desk in a room in far better condition than the building's exterior would indicate. From the slightly cluttered mahogany desk to the high-backed leather chair to the bright luminescence of the ceiling's fluorescent lights to the assorted shelves and even pictures scattering the walls, the room in almost every way appeared a normal office, with one exception.

Warren White. The Great White Shark.

The appellation suited him well. His once-handsome, normal features were now an ashen white-gray and stretched tightly to an almost leathery quality. His face was flat, the nose now no more than two slits, and his thin, barely-visible lips moved over filed, pointed teeth as he spoke into the phone pressed against a smooth nub that was once his ear.

"Who?" The voice rang through the air, a businesslike detachment audible as he spoke. "Manson? Who's- wait, he was the survivor from the botched Andreev deal, right? He's awake?" he asked the man on the other end, a faint note of interest creeping into his voice. "Has he said anything? I see. And he definitely confirmed it? You're sure?" He frowned slightly in thought at the other's response, turning a little in his chair. "Interesting. Keep me informed."

White hung up the phone, shark-like features forming an expression of contemplation.

So, he'd been wrong. All the evidence confirmed it: the Red Hood had, indeed, returned, and was on the attack. Of course, it could still be a ruse on the part of the Mask, but his gut told him otherwise, and he'd always trusted his instincts.

The first question now was how much damage the Hood had done, and how much he could and would do. The second, of course, was how long he could keep this quiet- no sense in spooking the small-timers, especially when their nerves were already jangled from Mask's desperate violence.

The third was how to handle this. If he was perfectly honest with himself, the Red Hood had been a good deal of the reason he had been able to take over so easily- thanks to the Red Hood, Sionis's operations had been weakened almost to the point of obliteration even before White had made his move. Clearly, the enigmatic, helmeted figure was a force to be reckoned with, and he seemed to have made Shark's operations his new target.

White had to admit that he knew little about the Red Hood; Hood had both arrived on and left the scene before Shark had begun expanding operations on a major scale, and had left little clues as to who he was or what he wanted. The word on the street was that all Hood's attempts to take over the Gotham underworld were not the result of a legitimate criminal ambition, but of an effort to eliminate it by consolidating it under his control- in short, Hood had been a vigilante pretending to be a gang lord.

If so, it certainly complicated things. If the Red Hood truly didn't care about power or personal gain, it was doubtful that he would be able to come to any type of deal with the man.

That was unfortunate- it would use up far more resources to track down and put down the vigilante than to simply make a deal, especially if the rumors as to his abilities proved true- but there was no other recourse. He would have to have him killed.

*******

"Someone wanna explain to me why it took so long for me to hear about this?" The rasping voice was tinged with irritation, the man's black, skull-like features twisted with anger. "Because really, I'm just dying to know how _none_of my best information guys seemed to notice that the Red fucking Hood not only isn't worm chow right now, but has been back and active for _over a week_."

Across from him, the three men looked at each other nervously, beads of sweat trickling down their faces. Somehow, none seemed particularly eager to be the first to speak.

"Well?" the Mask demanded, whipping around to face the men. "Anyone got a reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your empty heads?" He pounded the table for emphasis, the loud thud clear through the men's wary silence. "Because from where I'm standing, there's not a thing keeping me from putting you three brain donors in the ground and taking my chances with some new guys! What the hell am I paying you for?"

"Well-" came a voice as, at last, one of the men braved the gang leader's wrath with an explanation, offered tentatively. "Everything's been pretty much on the quiet so far. He doesn't seem to have hit us yet- maybe one or two of the small-timers got caught in the crossfire, but other than that, Hood's struck almost exclusively at Shark so far, and he seems to be keeping it quiet. He- he might not even know yet- Hood hasn't done anything real major. Yet. I- that is, it looks like he's just getting started. Really, it's still pretty early."

"That's not an excuse," Mask said in a low voice, but his temper, fortunately for the men, seemed to have cooled. Exasperated, he sighed, turning away from the three. "Swear to God," he mumbled to himself, "They just get keep getting dumber and dumber. Wish to hell that nutjob Batman-wannabe hadn't taken Li out before he got himself blown to Kingdom Come." He sighed again, waving a hand to dismiss the apprehensive men. "Fine. I'll buy that, this time. Now get out of my sight. And remember- if any of you _ever _miss something like this again, I swear that it'll take you _days_ to die."

He didn't even bother to watch the men leave, staring instead out the window as he thought.

Red Hood. The last upstart punk to take a shot at him- and he'd come a little to close for comfort, too. Just about had him beat before whatever the hell had happened when he got his ass blown up last year, and Mask'd owned Gotham, body and soul, when Hood had made his play. No way in hell that fish-faced wannabe angling for his place stood a chance. Shouldn't take long for him to fall, especially with Mask helping things along. Not a chance Shark could stand up to that type of beating. Maybe a chance that Shark could trip up Hood a bit- not beat him, not even close, but weaken him, maybe. Meaning, if he played his cards right, the Red Hood would go down just as easy as Shark, and Mask would be back in charge. Just put a bit more pressure on Shark in the meantime, keep the capes out of his hair, and his enemies would nicely defeat themselves for him.

And best of all- if he managed to play it right, he'd be free to properly "thank" a certain helmeted nuisance for all the trouble he'd caused him not too long ago.

*******

_/God, what a week./_

Andrew Albom could barely keep his eyes open as he fumbled for the keys to his shitty little hole in the wall.

_/There should be a law against this type of shit/, _he thought as he put the key in. /_Gotta be a rule somewhere that says this many things can't get fucked up one after another./_

It'd all started Tuesday night. Exchange should have been fine. Just like it always was. Him & his guys drove in the shipment, he met with the street dealers, took the take, and gave them the stuff, all nice and ready ta' get sold to a bunch of strung-out junkies lookin' for their next fix, then they all left, easy as pie.

It was a nice job. Real nice- much better than putting his ass on the line smuggling pills for peanuts from shithole to shithole where he could only hope the guy who nabbed him was a cop 'stead of some nutso freak in spandex. Nothing near that risky, most of the time- keep track of the shipments, make sure the dealers kicked back their cuts, kick most of that back up to Shark, supervise the exchanges, and be home by midnight. Bit more work in some ways, but it was sure as hell a lot cushier.

Except for Tuesday. Things'd gone south pretty quick Tuesday. Fucking Brown had flipped out after the Jacobs murder, tried to back out. "Not going to be the next guy to get butchered like an animal," he'd said. Then a couple more tried, too, and the shouting'd started pretty quick. His job to deal with that type of shit- keep it from fucking with operations for the higher-ups- so he'd had to try to calm 'em down, then put 'em down when that didn't work.

Woke up in Gotham General next morning. Concussion, stab wound in the shoulder, and a shitload of bruises. Nothing too bad, he'd thought, but they'd kept him for observation 'til Thursday night, "just to be safe," and, just his luck, the cops'd started poking around. He thought he'd talked his way out of it, but no, he could only be so lucky- hadn't even been out of the hospital for an _hour_ when he'd got his ass booked. Night in a cell, and most of the morning, 'fore one of the guys had posted bail for him.

_Then _he'd had to spend the rest of the day trying to figure out what the hell went wrong, and how to fix it, and what to do, and how to keep the cops out of it.

Fuck, what a mess. And just when things had been looking good for him, too- got a nice job with decent pay, got on Shark's good side, became an actual figure in the organization, with actual responsibilities and respect and even some fucking _trust_, and then this shit had happened? Fuck, no.

The door creaked as it opened, and bleary-eyed, he stumbled in. Miracle he even remembered to bolt and chain the door 'fore he collapsed completely on the beat-up couch in the middle of the room. He groaned loudly, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. Shit, he was drained. He hoped to hell Ernie and the others wouldn't call, 'cause he didn't think he could deal with one more fucking thing going wrong.

The pain was sharp, the blade's edge cold as it grazed his throat.

"Wow," came the voice from behind him. "You're just _not _having a good week, are you?"

*******


	10. Regrets

A/N: Okay, so I lied in my last A/N- no plot in this installment. Instead, filler chapter is filler. Sorry.

In my defense, this is not the chapter that was originally supposed to be posted. However, the one that was has been... difficult... and it's really been _way_ too long since I've updated, so I'm shifting the chapter order around a bit and posting this. But the good news is, I think I've finally kicked my writer's block, so we should be back to your regularly scheduled updates soon!

Also, while I'm fully aware that someone with my abysmal update rate is in no real position to be making demands of her readers, it would still be nice to actually get a review every now and again...

* * *

_His voice is heavy, choked with tears and fury._

"_It's him or me. You have to decide."_

_They stand across from each other, gazes locked. The boy holds a grinning man in front of him in a chokehold, staring at the other as he jams the gun to his hostage's (his murderer's) temple, tears streaking a glistening path down from one ice-blue eye. His body trembles furiously with pain and rage. _

_His hand is steady._

"_Please, don't..." The other, the man who is always so strong, so cold, disciplined and in control, is begging now, every word a plea. _'I can't do this,' _it cries in every syllable. _'Don't make me do this.'

"_I'll count to 'three.'" He doesn't listen to the appeal. Maybe he can't. Maybe he won't. He stands determined either way._

"_Put the gun down." It's an order now, his voice steel and ice. It's no longer a plea. A plea could never be this desperate._

'It doesn't have to end this way,' _he can't say._

"_One," the boy continues._

"_Don't." Anger now. One last chance. One last, hopeless attempt to stave off what both of them know is coming._

'Please.'

"_Two."_

"_No!" He cries, but he knows it's too late._

_He's always too late to save him. _

_For a moment, the boy looks directly at the blank white lenses of the man in front of him, his hard stare clear through the tears, challenging. His gaze holds a swirl of emotions, of fear and pain, dread and hope, but one is clear- resolve. _

"_Thr-" he begins, and it's over._

/Jason./

_And then his blood is everywhere._

Deep under the streets of Gotham City, in a harshly lit cavern, lying prone on a small, too-frequently-used cot, Bruce Wayne jerked awake, gasping slightly as his eyes flew open.

_/I'm sorry._/ The thought betrayed him momentarily, his breathing ragged, his eyes stinging slightly from the memory.

Then it was gone, the past driven from his mind. Agitatedly, he stood, tossing aside the thin blankets.

He didn't need to check to know how long he'd slept. Five hours. Far more than the short nap he'd intended.

He'd rested long enough. Batman had work to do.


	11. Pleasant Conversation

A/N: Hi! So, this series, ah, kind of went on hiatus for a while there, didn't it? See, this has been a really, really busy school year for me and, well... I kind of, ah, didn't update for a while, didn't I?

Don'thurtmeIhavefic.

* * *

_The pain was sharp, the blade's edge cold as it grazed his throat. _

"_Wow," came the voice from behind him. "You're just _not_ having a good week, are you?"_

"I mean," the intruder continued before Andrew could react, "First the deal with Gant goes south, and you get yourself all sliced and diced to boot, _then_ you get your ass arrested, and now, to top it all off, some _jackass _has the _nerve _to bust into your place and threaten you for information? Not your best week ever."

Andrew's mind kicked into overdrive. What the hell? How? How the hell did this guy know so much? Had he been tailing him? Why? He shouldn't know who he was. How the hell did he know who he was? Had he found him from the hospital? The cops? Who the hell was he? 'Threaten him for information?' What did he want to know? What the fuck could _he_ tell him?

Shit. Was this one of Mask's guys? Shit shit shit shit. He was fucked. If this was one of Mask's guys, he was majorly fucked.

Okay- okay, he had to calm down. He could get out of this. He could get out of this. He'd got out of worse before. He just had to play this cool. Just keep the guy talking, wait for a chance, then grab the knife, pull his piece, and plug him. He'd been on the wrong end of knives before, he knew what to do. He'd be fine. He just had to play this right.

Slowly, he put up his hands, letting the guy see he didn't have anything. "Hey man," he said calm as he could. "It's cool, it's cool. I'm cool. Don't want any trouble."

He had to be real careful here. Last thing he wanted was to make the guy jumpy. The bastard had half an idea what he was doing with that knife, he needed to be taken serious. Real serious. Never fuck with a knife fighter, he'd learned a long while ago- those sons of bitches were deadly fuckers enough just in a fair fight, nevermind when they had a goddamn blade jammed to your neck.

"Well, that's a promising start," the intruder said. "Still-" a hand suddenly reached over his shoulder... and pulled Andrew's gun from its hiding place, unbuckling the hidden holster with a smooth movement. "Keep dishonest thugs honest and all that, hmm?" the guy asked, waving the piece a little so he could see before he pulled it back.

_/_Shit_!/ _That wasn't good. That was not. Fucking. Good. That was the only weapon he'd had on him- he'd lost all he had when things went south Tuesday. Only reason he'd had the one he did was Donny'd given him it 'til he could hunt down some new 'quip.

Meaning, now he was unarmed. He was unarmed, and there was a goddamn knife to his throat.

He swallowed hard, careful not to move his hands. Okay. Okay, keep calm. He could get out of this. Just keep cool. No sudden moves. Don't make the guy jumpy. "Hey, no prob," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "Wasn't stupid enough to go for that anyways. I told ya- I don't want any trouble." He paused for a sec. Should he ask? Would the guy even tell him? It'd be good to know, though, and he needed to keep the guy talking, give himself time to think. Yeah, he'd ask. Guy wouldn't kill him yet just for asking, if he wanted info. "You with Mask?"

There was a dark kind of chuckle. "No."

Okay. Okay, that was a good thing. Guy still had a knife to his throat, but if he wasn't one of Mask's psychos, he could talk his way out of this a lot easier. Except-

Was he lying? Would he lie about it? Andrew didn't think the guy'd lie about it. About not being with him, anyways. What'd be the point, right? If he wanted to squeeze him for info? It'd just be better to make someone talk, wouldn't it? Since everyone knew Mask had a bunch of guys running around carving people up.

But if he wasn't with Mask...

"Who you with, then?" He couldn't be one of the Bat's guys, could he? Didn't seem too likely. The Bat didn't kill; everyone knew that. Didn't follow one of his guys would, either. Could be bluffing, maybe? Faking him out?

There was a jolt of pain as the knife dug in deeper. He tilted his head back farther in response, not quite far back enough to get a good view of the guy. "Do you _really_ think you're in a position to be asking questions?" came the voice.

He choked down the pained hiss, swallowing hard. "Hey, hey, no prob, no prob," he said, trying to sound casual. "Just curious, is all. Making small talk, right? No need for things to get ugly."

Another chuckle. "You can think of me as an independent agent, if you want," the guy said.

'Independent agent'? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Was this a new player? Another nutjob looking to carve out a slice of Gotham for himself? And if he was, what the hell did he want with _him_?

"All right. All right, look, whoever you are, you've got the wrong guy, man. Whatever you want from me- I don't know nothing. I _ain't_ nothin'. Zip. Hardly higher up'n the street runners. Don't know squat about anything."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, Andy," the vaguely amused voice came again. "You're an ambitious guy, from what I've been hearing. Got a lot more friends in good places'n you'll own up to, and know a helluva lot more than you'd like to admit. And what you know, well, I'd like to know it too." The stranger paused. "Of course, if you're so _sure_ that you don't know anything, I could just kill you now. Plenty of other guys I could ask, and really, I've wasted way more time on you than you're worth already." There was a fresh bolt of pain from the blade at his throat.

"No!" he broke out before he could stop himself, a hand going instinctively to grab at the guy's wrist. He forced out a nervous laugh. "Hey, you know, on second thought, maybe I do know something after all, huh? 'M just way too modest about it, you know? Everyone says, I'm way too modest for my own good, always sell myself short." He gulped a little, a trickle of warm blood winding slowly down his neck. "Let's see how much I know, huh?"

The intruder snorted with amusement. "Smart guy." The pressure on his throat decreased a little. "Here's how this is going to work: I am going to ask you a question. You don't tell me, or lie to me- and trust me, Andy-boy, I will know- and I stop wasting my time here and just kill you now. You tell me what I want to know, and I won't just let you live; I'll put you on the payroll, make you an informant just as long as you're willing to play along. Capische?"

_Payroll_? But- damn it, he didn't even just want info; he wanted a fucking _informant_?

"You want me to work for you?"

"That'd be about the gist of it, yeah."

"What if I'm not exactly lookin' for a career change right now?"

"Then I kill you anyways. All-or-nothing deal, Andy. And you know, I'd act fact if I were you- this is a limited time-offer."

For a moment, Andrew was silent, weighing his options, before finally coming to a decision. "What do you want to know?"

The guy chuckled slightly. "Word on the street is, Shark's got a big deal going down pretty soon. Big shipment of black tar, right up your alley. I know it's coming in sometime this week, and I know it's going somewhere near the Dixon area, but beyond that, I don't have the when or the where. Care to clue me in?"

Black tar? He hadn't heard anything about- no, damn it, he _had_ to have heard something about it, had to have if it was as big as the guy said it was. And he had, had heard about something coming in near the docks, and he hoped to God it was the one the guy was looking or, or he was fucked.

"Dixon? That's- look, that's not in my territory, but I've heard something about something big happening near the docks. Some ship coming in Tuesday. Dealers themselves prob'ly won't meet there- the runners don't like it. My bet is they'll take it to the place on the corner of Manson and 22nd- big warehouse, can't miss it. Old GenCo warehouse, got bought a while ago by Big Sam, still has the old sign. I don't- chances are, the deal itself'll go down sometime 'tween midnight and 4, that's when they usually do it, but I can't give you an exact time. But- look, I don't know for sure this is the one you're looking for, but I swear to God, gimme a day and I'll double-check and get you the time. Right hand up to God, I swear."

For a moment, there was silence, and his heart stopped. Then, suddenly, the pressure at his throat disappeared. Andrew let out a gasp of relief, hand flying to his neck. Instinctively, he started to turn around to get a better look at the guy, then stopped himself. He was so goddamn close to getting out of this- sure as hell wasn't going to risk it all going bad now because he couldn't control his fucking curiosity.

"A day, huh?" There was a clattering noise as the cellphone all of a sudden landed on the table in front of him. Andrew blinked, picking it up and staring at it dumbly. "I'll be in touch. In the meantime... well, let's just say that it'll go over a lot better for you if we keep this little heart-to-heart between the two of us, hm?" There was a faint sound of movement, footsteps walking away from him.

He hesitated, hand still on his throat. "Hey- hey, wait!"

The footsteps stopped. He made another half-motion to turn around, before asking, "I at least get to know who I'm working for?"

There was a quiet chuckle from behind him. "The name 'Red Hood' mean anything to you?"

_/Red-/_ Finally, Andrew whipped around, catching only a glimpse of the figure as he disappeared out the door, closing it behind him.

Red Hood? The same fucking psycho who'd just about run Black Mask into the ground last year? The same Red Hood who was supposed to be _dead_? And now Andrew had just agreed to-

Oh, fuck. What the hell had he just gotten himself into?


End file.
